


Coming Home

by dilemmaed



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cigarettes, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Neck Kissing, Neil Josten Is an Idiot, Neil Josten loves Andrew Minyard, POV Neil Josten, Post-The King's Men, Professional Exy (All For The Game), Protective Andrew Minyard, Reunions, Soft Neil Josten, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: Andrew fixed him with an impatient glare, “I hate you.”“I know,” Neil said, sounding almost breathless. “You tell me so often it's starting to sound like a compliment.”“Want to test it?” Andrew queried, tightening his grip on Neil’s chin. “I’ll gladly push you off if you’re not careful. Don’t tempt me, Josten.”“I’ll drag you down with me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it. You don’t scare me, Andrew.” Neil said, fighting off a shiver as the heat of Andrew’s breath brushed against his neck.“Junkie,” He said again, the word sounded like a curse.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 15
Kudos: 283





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> It's been a minute since I've posted anything but I'm back with more Andreil because I really just can't stay away from them. 
> 
> This is a sort of reunion fic which was prompted by someone in the comments of my first andreil one shot so let me know if that was you! Also, this one shot ended up a lot longer than I first intended it to...whoops...
> 
> I have another idea for a one shot for them so let's hope I can write it and get it up as soon as possible!
> 
> Also, I've come to the conclusion that futile devices by Sufjan Stevens is andreil's song...change my mind... Please feel free to comment any songs that you associate with them since I'm always looking for new music!
> 
> I'm still relatively new to writing for this fandom so be kind!
> 
> This is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He had been gone too long.

Far longer than he anticipated when he had seen two of Ichirou’s men standing outside of the locker room after his last game. It had been years since Ichirou last outright approached him. Though of course, he’d had given Neil subtle reminders of what exactly his freedom was contingent on, and what would be threatened if he failed to deliver over the years, most obvious of which was the large cut taken out of Neil’s Exy salary each month.

He figured that he’d be gone for a few hours max, though he had fleetingly thought that maybe he had outlived his use, and Ichirou had finally decided to rid himself of Neil. And that thought had scared him, scared him enough to bring back the oh-too-familiar urge to flee, something he hadn’t felt in years, since the days before Binghamton, before Baltimore, before his father’s then Riko’s death. But he knew what would happen if he ran. He had known then that he wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t run, wouldn’t endanger Andrew when he had fought so hard to remain at his side. 

So he had gone with Ichirou’s men, who had not breathed a word of why he was being summoned. Not when they loaded him onto a private jet and carted him to New York City, to the skyscraper that Ichirou called his “office”. Ichirou had kept him waiting for days, in a cushy suite on the top floor, with a startlingly close view of the Empire State Building. When he was finally taken to see Moriyama, he was escorted by three men, all of whom were built like brick walls and had at least a foot on Neil. They were a blatant warning not to step a single toe out of line, lest he be beaten bloody in retaliation for his insolence.

Fortunately, when he stood before Ichirou’s oversized desk, he hadn’t wanted to talk much about Neil at all. He wanted to talk about his father–or more specifically, those who worked for him. Apparently, a few of his father’s former henchmen who had bowed again to the Moriyamas after his death had managed to slip away from their watchful eye after making some sort of trouble. And though Neil had given up all of the information he knew to the FBI long ago, Ichirou had some notion that Neil might be able to point him in the right direction, that, after years of being removed from the mafia circuit, he would remember their old hiding spaces. Unfortunately, no matter how far removed he was now, he would always remember the years he’d spent on the run, the years he’d spent at his father’s side before that. 

Ichirou had used threats to get what he wanted, ones that Neil had known weren’t the empty kind, not after he had seen the man shoot his younger brother in the face without hesitation after the Foxes won the final. But truth be told, they weren’t necessary. Neil would always be an instigator, would always have an attitude problem, but this was information he wasn’t afraid to hold onto any longer. At this stage, he had no reason to withhold any of it. He only wanted to be able to go back  _ home _ , a place that, when he had been neck deep in all of this, he never thought that he could have, never even let himself dream of the possibility. But now that he held it firmly in his grasp, he didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to relinquish all that he managed to gain, not when it meant so much to him. He wanted to hold fast to it, to Andrew and the home he’d offered Neil when he’d pressed a key into his palm all those years ago on the front steps of the house in Columbia. So Neil had told them what he had told the FBI back in Baltimore, given the names of some of his father’s more discreet haunts, ones that might have flown under Kengo's radar. 

In the end, Neil had been gone for over a week. Nine days in total. Finally, Ichirou had deemed the information he’d given satisfactory and let Neil go, completely unharmed, but with the unspoken threat that, should he find Neil’s information false, or find him unpleasant or useless, he could–and would–dispose of him in the same way he did his brother. Neil had no doubt in the validity of this statement. He could see the promise in Ichirou’s black eyes, in the gun he had held to Neil’s head.

Ichirou’s men had taken Neil’s cell phone that night outside the locker room before Neil could type out any more than a simple “I’ll be okay” into his messages. He knew it wasn’t enough to stay Andrew’s hand, knew that the three words would probably little other than spur Andrew on further, but he couldn’t disappear without a word, the way he had back in Binghamton. At least this way, he had given Andrew  _ something _ .

When Neil finally got his phone back, the device roughly pressed into his hand as he stepped off the jet, he had twenty-seven missed calls and ninety-four messages. Some were from his teammates, quite a few from his coach, asking where the hell he’d gone off to, where he’d been, why he’d missed their game a few nights ago without a single word. He warned Neil that he was in violation of his contract. He knew that his coach was bluffing; Neil was their best striker and they couldn’t afford to get through to the playoffs without him. He was his team’s only Court-ranked player. 

He hailed a cab as he stood on the wet pavement, hoping he had enough cash in his pocket to fund the ride home. Amongst the static of messages, there were some errant ones from the Foxes, mostly from the group chat that Nicky had started a while back, but the messages sent individually were the ones that interested him most. 

Scrolling through them, the earlier ones were mostly demands to know why he hadn’t been answering in the group chat, which was something he rarely did on a normal day, but as the date crawled closer to today’s, the concern grew, plateauing the other night, when he had missed his game. From there, the Foxes had been thrown into a full-out panic, Allison, Nicky, and Dan at the forefront. The most curious of all were the texts from Kevin, which were snarky and somewhat rude, but there was blatant concern laced within Kevin’s usual narcissism. Out of all of the hundred messages, there was only one from Andrew, from two nights ago. A short message, though as he read it, Neil felt as if he had been hit in the stomach with an Exy racquet.

_ '279%, Junkie,' _ it said.

He could hear Andrew’s voice in it, could practically smell the familiar musk of his cigarettes, the tang of the soap they shared. It was as familiar as the grooves of the key Andrew had given him, as familiar as stepping onto an Exy court, as the weight of a racquet in his hand. His chest ached at the thought, and, clenching his fist, he silently willed the cab to move faster.

To anyone else, the message would seem simple, probably wouldn’t even make much sense, but Neil could feel the way that Andrew’s patience had worn thin in the time since he’d last saw him, the irritation, the silent panic that lay in that message. 

When the car finally pulled up in front of his and Andrew’s apartment, he jumped out, grabbing the small bag with his clothing that Ichirou’s men had given back to him upon his arrival home and the plastic bag with ice cream in it that he had gotten from the convenience store where Ichirou’s men had dropped him off. Upon inspection, he could tell that someone had gone through it, and he tried to remain unfazed. He had to remind himself where he was, to remind himself that  _ Neil Josten _ was no longer a hopeless fantasy, but rather, his reality. He had to force himself to remember, teeth gritted, that he wasn’t running from anyone, that his life didn’t have an expiration date any longer, that he had long since stopped carrying his binder, stopped keeping all he owned in a carry-on sized duffel.

With every step he took towards the apartment, he could feel his heartbeat picking up, could feel the anxiety growing inside of him. He hadn’t the slightest clue how Andrew would receive him. He knew he’d be angry–but how angry?

As he walked past, Neil caught sight of their mailbox, the words MINYARD-JOSTEN: 557 written out in thick block letters above the compartment. Neil brushed his fingers against it absently. He was so close–so close to home that he could taste it, could practically feel the press of Andrew’s body against his own

Sliding his key into the lock, Neil tugged the door open, the familiar scent of his and Andrew’s apartment–the first place that had ever been just  _ theirs _ –overwhelmed him. He was  _ home _ . It was a concept that had once been so foreign that it terrified him, that had made him want, more than anything, to run, but now, closing the door behind him, Neil sunk into the security of it, wanted to drown in it. 

For a moment, he wondered if Andrew was even home. It was late, but you never knew with Andrew. Sometimes he’d go out at 4am just to get ice cream or a pack of cigarettes. But his speculation was quelled almost instantly, as, from the entry room, he could hear the low murmur of a television, muffled voices of some newscaster or other. He dropped his duffel onto the floor, toeing out of his shoes. In New York, he had been given only dress clothes to wear, suits and ties, but now he was wearing his own clothes, an old long sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. Neil followed the sound of the television into the living room, plastic bag in hand, steeling himself for the argument–or worse than that, the cool indifference that was sure to come.

When he entered, his eyes immediately fell to the familiar blond head, his heart pounding in his chest at the sight of seeing him after so many days. Andrew was on the couch, his eyes closed, a gentle furrow in his brow. His limbs were sprawled out, Neil’s favorite blanket thrown over him haphazardly. His phone was hanging loosely from one hand, the other dangling off the sofa. Sir Fat Cat was curled up against his side, a sight that made Neil smile softly to himself. This was Andrew as only Neil saw him–at his most vulnerable, his most peaceful.

He wanted to touch Andrew, to run a hand through his hair, to trace the delicate scape of his jawline, his lips, to map out each facet of him as he had done hundreds of times before–enough so now that he would know Andrew blindfolded, would know him by touch alone. His fingers itched to be closer, to wake Andrew and pull him close, to kiss him until they both fell apart. His hand tightened around the handle of the bag.

He took a step forward, the floor creaking underneath his weight. Neil silently swore to himself as Andrew, the only person who was as light a sleeper as Neil was, jerked awake, tired hazel eyes open wide as he blinked the sleep out of them. All of the tension that had been released in sleep was now back with a vengeance as Andrew sat up, ramrod straight, his eyes darting around the room frantically, fists clenched, though his breaths were mostly calm, until his eyes settled on Neil. Sir Fat Cat awoke with the movement, hopping gracefully off of the couch to slink his way through Neil’s legs.

Andrew said nothing, though his presence filled the room in such a commanding way now that he was awake, in a way that snaked around Neil’s body, wrapped around him like a blanket. It was that same stony stare that set people running away from Andrew, had them backing away in fear that he would hurt them, but Neil only wanted to move closer.

He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe as he stood there, five feet from Andrew. He knew he should be the one to speak, that he should be making excuses for himself, apologizing, but he felt as if no words could justify what he was feeling in this moment–relief entwined with something he couldn’t place, something that he was scared to name.

Andrew’s eyes danced about Neil’s body intently, seemingly checking for any new scars, new bruises. Neil let Andrew look his fill and watched as his fists unclenched a bit once he deemed what he saw to be satisfactory. Neil knew though, from past experience, that Andrew wouldn’t be completely satisfied until he could feel Neil’s bare skin, could examine him closely. When he was done, Andrew brought his gaze back to Neil’s, tension still evident in his small, but strong frame. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time Neil had seen him. He almost felt bad about waking him; he could tell from a moment’s glance that Andrew hadn’t been sleeping much. It was a subtle tell in the glint of his eyes, but Neil could recognize it better than he could his own exhaustion. His hands ached with the effort not to move closer.

“300,” Andrew said finally, flicking his finger at Neil dismissively.

Neil huffed out a choked sound that might have been a laugh under other circumstances, “I thought I was at 279.”

Andrew only shrugged, “So the Prodigal Son returns.”

“Andrew I–” He started.

“That little disappearing act got old a long time ago, Josten.” He said, his eyes bored, seemingly uninterested.

Neil ran a shaking hand through his auburn hair, “Ichirou sent men to the stadium after my game last week. They brought me to New York. They took my phone the first chance they got.”

Andrew’s fist clenched tight, a movement that greatly contrasted his disinterested tone, “And?”

“He wanted information on a few of my father’s former men,” Neil said sourly. “They got into some shit they shouldn’t have, it seems, then took off with Moriyama money.”

Andrew inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod, “And did you tell him?”

“Yes,” Neil said, watching Andrew’s scrutinizing gaze carefully, “I did. I had no reason to lie.” He paused, his brow furrowing, “I have too much to lose.”

Something flashed in Andrew’s eyes, but whatever it was receded too quickly for Neil to take note of it. “Do you now, Runaway,” Andrew asked, not really a question, standing up from his place on the couch. 

His clothes were rumpled, eyes sunken in, hair disheveled, pillow lines evident across his cheekbone, but somehow Andrew managed to look every bit put together, a meticulously arranged puzzle, a shield around himself. If it were anyone else but Neil, they might not have caught the sharp edge to Andrew’s jaw, the tense set of his shoulders that gave away more than he knew Andrew wished to convey.

“Yeah,” Neil said, taking a slow step towards Andrew, keeping a careful distance between them still. “I’m so–”

“No,” Andrew cut him off. “No, you’re not. I don’t tolerate bullshit apologies. You should know that by now.”

Neil loosed a breath out of his mouth, “He wouldn’t have killed me. If he did, people would take notice; I’m a Court-ranked player and not a quiet one. And right now, Ichirou doesn’t need any prying eyes.”

“Death isn’t the only way to harm a person. You and I both know that,” Andrew said, gesturing to Neil’s general person with indifference, from the burn scars on his face, to his forearms, the ruined landscape of his chest. 

Neil’s eyes dipped down to where Andrew’s arms hung at his side, at the scars hidden by his shirtsleeves. He never wore his bands this late at night if they were home; it was just another small bit of trust he had handed Neil over the years, the weight of it enormous enough that he had to prevent himself from having a physical reaction the first time Andrew had done it. He didn’t allow himself to think about the other scars left on Andrew, the invisible ones; he knew he would ache if he thought of all Andrew had endured, cruelty done unto an innocent boy who only wanted a family. Andrew didn’t want his pity or his sympathy and made it clear to anyone who looked at him with either in their eyes, so Neil swallowed the feeling.

“I’m fine,” Neil said, his eyes resting on Andrew’s hazel ones. They were studying him with intent, his face expressionless.

“Ah, yes,” Andrew’s voice was low with false amusement, shaking his head, “I was waiting to see how long it took you. I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word.”

“I  _ am _ fine, Andrew. He didn’t touch me,” he said. Andrew looked bored and disbelieving. “I promise.”

Andrew said nothing, showing no indication that he heard, or that he cared if he did, shoving a hand into his pocket, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he always kept there. “Are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?” He asked, pulling the pack out of his pocket. “I’m practically quaking in anticipation.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Peace offering,” Neil said, holding out the bag for Andrew to take. “Picked it up on my way back.”

Andrew walked toward him, plucked the bag out from his hand and proceeded out the back door to the balcony. He didn’t turn to see if Neil followed. Neil felt as if his feet were stuck to the ground for a moment. Andrew’s scent still filled his nose; it was so familiar it was dizzying. 

Closing the door behind him so the cats wouldn’t get out, Neil followed Andrew to where he stood against the railing, two cigarettes already lit. As Neil approached, he handed one to him, their fingers touching for the briefest moment. Andrew barely seemed to register the contact, but Neil could feel it thrumming through his veins seconds after. Andrew was standing so close, their shoulders nearly brushing. They hadn’t gone this long without seeing each other, without touching, since some of the worse weeks of Neil’s fifth year, when Andrew couldn’t make it for a weekend in Columbia or Fox Tower.

Cigarette in his mouth, Andrew opened the bag, plastic rustling slightly in the wind. It had rained earlier and Neil could still feel the dampness lingering in the cool night air. Andrew’s eyebrows raised as he examined the contents. Neil had gotten two pints of Andrew’s favorite ice cream. Andrew pretty much ate anything with an obscene calorie count, but after years of careful study and trips to Sweetie’s, Neil had finally pinned down his favorite. 

Andrew said nothing but closed the bag, placing it on the table next to him. He quirked an eyebrow at Neil, examining what lay in his expression. They were close enough that Andrew had to tilt his head up slightly to look Neil in the eyes. He tugged his cigarette from his lip, letting the smoke curl its way out of his mouth. He blew it in Neil’s face, taking a step back from him. 

“Do you happen to know the score of the other night’s game?” Neil asked, trying to weigh the odds of whether Andrew actually watched or paid attention to Exy, knowing they weren’t good. He was slightly less apathetic than he used to be towards the sport, but he’d never have the drive or the obsession that Neil and Kevin felt towards it. Andrew thought it a waste of time and energy put towards something that didn’t matter.

“Fucking Junkie,” He cursed, mildly amused. 

Neil shrugged, flicking the ash of his cigarette in Andrew’s general direction as if to say,  _ ‘Yours, always yours’.  _ Andrew ignored this. He was quiet for a moment and Neil was beginning to think that Andrew wasn’t going to answer when he finally spoke.

“It was 7-5,” Andrew said, turning his head to look out past the rail. “Your team sucks, Josten.”

Neil sighed, “They’re not that bad. They need to learn how to work as a team. They just need a little push.”

“I thought I was the one with a hard-on for lost causes,” Andrew said, nonplussed, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Neil only shrugged, watching Andrew’s face as he studied the curls of charcoal smoke impassively. Andrew’s expression was stony and Neil could tell he wouldn’t say anything else on the subject, or even address his last statement. 

Neil’s eyes drifted back to the bag on the table, the cartons of ice cream sweating slightly. “You know,” Neil said, a small smile working its way onto his lips, “some people  _ actually _ say thank you.”

“It’s not in my vocabulary,” Andrew quipped, “And you know,” He said, mimicking Neil’s words, “some people just don’t disappear without a trace for nine days and show up on the doorstep like they went out for a pack of cigarettes.”

“I told you, I–” Neil started.

“And I told you I don’t want to hear it,” Andrew said, taking another drag. He moved a step closer to Neil again, close enough now that he could feel Andrew’s breath against his neck. Andrew grabbed his chin in a furious grip so abrupt that Neil almost flinched. He turned Neil’s head to either side, inspecting the scars on his face, checking for any new ones. It was a gesture so familiar to the one Andrew had performed so long ago in Baltimore, knee to knee with Neil on a dingy hotel floor and for a moment, Neil was sure he felt the sting of a dashboard lighter against his cheekbone, the slide of a paper-thin blade against the base of his fingers.

“He didn’t touch me, Andrew.” Neil said again, “I wouldn’t lie to you about that, but if you want to look for yourself, it’s a yes. I’m not going to stop you.” He gestured to his clothes, but refused to break Andrew’s stare. He moved his hand closer to Andrew’s where it rested on the rail hovering a few inches away, giving Andrew the space to bow out. Andrew linked their pinkies, but said nothing, didn’t even look away from Neil’s eyes. Neil tried to ignore the way that Andrew’s hands were slightly shaking.

Andrew fixed him with an impatient glare, “I hate you.”

“I know,” Neil said, sounding almost breathless. “You tell me so often it's starting to sound like a compliment.”

“Want to test it?” Andrew queried, tightening his grip on Neil’s chin. “I’ll gladly push you off if you’re not careful. Don’t tempt me, Josten.”

“Don't tempt _me._ I’ll drag you down with me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it. You don’t scare me, Andrew.” Neil said, fighting off a shiver as the heat of Andrew’s breath brushed against his neck. 

“Junkie,” He said again, the word sounded like a curse. Andrew unhooked his pinky from Neil’s, stubbing out his cigarette on the rail, tossing it over the edge of the balcony, rather than into the ashtray sitting a few feet from his hand. He pried Neil’s from his fingers too, repeating the steps, hand still holding Neil’s chin in place.

Andrew glanced back up at him, his expression inscrutable, but the heat of his skin undeniable. “Yes or no,” Andrew asked, his hazel eyes dancing from his ruined ruined to Neil’s bottom lip to ice blue eyes.

“Yes,” Neil breathed, trying and failing to dip his chin downward towards the man in front of him, but Andrew’s grip was too firm. He  _ needed _ to be closer, in the same way that he needed air–needed Exy. He needed Andrew more than he would ever let himself believe, in a way he’d never allowed himself to need anyone, save his mother and that scared him. He leaned so much of himself on Andrew, on his solid warmth, his strength and Neil didn’t let him think about the possibility that Andrew might not be there to hold him up one day. When that inevitably occurred, he knew he might never recover from the fall.

“Where?” Neil asked, his breath hitching as Andrew maneuvered himself half a step closer, so close that their chests were in danger of touching. Neil could feel the warmth of Andrew’s skin through his shirt, despite the chill in the air. He wanted to step into it. 

“Waist up.” Andrew said curtly, narrowing his eyes at Neil.

Neil swallowed, nodding. It was more than he was expecting Andrew to give tonight. Even after all this time, each time Andrew trusted Neil with this–with himself, letting Neil touch him, run his hands across his skin, something that he’d allowed no others to do, Neil felt a small jolt in his chest. As if reading his thoughts in the blue of his eyes, Andrew shot him a look.

“Asshole,” He hissed, crashing his lips into Neil’s.

All of the breath was sucked out of Neil’s lungs in one fell swoop as Andrew’s lips pressed into his. Kissing Andrew was such a familiar and welcome sensation that he had to grab the railing to prevent himself from swaying. Neil had never thought that kissing, that touching another person could feel like this. He hadn’t truly understood the desire for intimacy until Andrew had pushed him against a wall and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe, until he had felt Andrew’s hands on him. He had never thought that something so trivial, something so simple could be dangerous enough to be his undoing.  _ This _ was what his mother wanted to protect him from–this  _ heat _ , this feeling growing in Neil’s chest with each swipe of a tongue on his bottom lip, each sure touch of Andrew’s deft fingers.

Neil leant into Andrew’s rough kiss, into the teeth and tongue he was offering, crushing Neil’s lips to his. He could feel Andrew’s anger in his kiss, in the bruising nature of it. Andrew always kissed like he had everything to lose, but tonight, Neil could feel all of the tension in Andrew’s body unwinding, being thrown into this one action. Neil’s hand worked its way into Andrew’s hair, pulling him in closer,  _ closer _ . 

If Andrew kissed like he had everything to lose, then Neil was kissing like he was a dying man and Andrew was his only source of oxygen. His other hand drifted to Andrew’s jaw, blunt fingernails curling around the hard line of it. He swiped his tongue against Andrew’s, retreating only to press a hard kiss against the corner of Andrew’s mouth.

Andrew’s hand ripped away from Neil’s chin, sliding back to grip his neck, to tangle in the auburn strands at the nape. Andrew pulled hard on them, causing Neil to release a strangled moan into Andrew’s mouth. His nails raked against Neil’s scalp and he had to suppress a shudder, leaning harder into the strong planes of Andrew’s body. Neil shook at the contact, with the feeling of their chest pressed together, hearts beating in tandem, their waists so intimately pressed together that Neil could almost forget the layers of denim scraping between them.

He had missed this, missed the feeling of Andrew’s familiar hand in his hair, one of the few forms of touching that had become casual between them. Andrew was always touching his hair and it had become something he was accustomed to now, something he missed sorely when they were apart. The feeling now sent a chill down his spine and had him kissing Andrew even harder.

Andrew’s free hand slid between them, tracing the collar of his shirt none too gently, feeling each scar, from the familiar puckering on his collarbone where a bullet had grazed him to his right shoulder, where his father had held a hot iron to his chest. Andrew’s hand lingered there, his thumb and forefinger fitting neatly into two of the more pronounced divots.

As his hand moved downward, trailing up the hem of Neil’s shirt for better access, he broke the kiss off furiously, gasping a moment for breath in a decidedly un-Andrew like manner. Neil pressed an open mouthed kiss to his temple, his nose grazing Andrew’s cheekbone. Neil was content to rest there, a hand in Andrew’s hair, Andrew’s hand on Neil’s abdomen, feeling, searching for new additions to the long-memorized map of abuse trailing across Neil’s body. 

Andrew however, once catching his breath, pulled back and caught Neil’s mouth again, biting his bottom lip so furiously, he tasted metal. Andrew’s lips were bruising against his, his hands rough against his body, but Andrew pulled away much too soon, leaving Neil keening. 

Andrew shoved him against the rail, “So fucking desperate,” He shook his head, stepping forward in between Neil’s legs. His cheeks were pink, his lips swollen in a way that made Neil want to pull him back in for another kiss. “Did anyone ever tell you that’s unattractive?”

“Once or twice,” Neil mused, his voice not sounding nearly as strong as he wished it to. “But you like it.” He said, leaning his head down to nuzzle Andrew’s neck with his nose. Andrew shivered, unable to steel himself from the careful brush of Neil’s lips against the sensitive skin, so at odds with the ferocious manner in which they had been kissing. Andrew’s hand fell from his hair, nails scraping down his skin in a bone-chilling way, his fingers twisted into the collar of Neil’s shirt.

“Andrew, can I–” Neil whispered into the crook of Andrew’s neck.

“Yes,” Andrew choked out, trying his best to sound unaffected as Neil so carefully hovered over one of the most sensitive parts of his body. Andrew’s body was straining with effort, his fist so tight in Neil’s hair that it was shaking, though he knew that if he looked at Andrew’s face, there would be little in the way of an expression. Neil sucked a bruise onto Andrew’s neck, nipping at the skin. Some selfish part of him wanted to leave a lasting mark, some temporary reminder that this–that Andrew was real. He sunk his teeth into his flesh–light enough not to hurt, but deep enough to leave a mark–as Andrew’s hand tightened in his shirt, the rough calluses on the other rubbing against Neil’s abdomen. He leaned into Andrew’s touch further, the hand in his hair pulling Andrew closer.

He burned against the way Andrew’s body arched against his, at the soft sounds that made their way out of his mouth as Neil worked his mouth on his neck. There was something so intoxicating about making Andrew feel this way, about coaxing reactions from him no matter how small. To be trusted with something like this, with the ability to make Andrew feel this way despite what had been done to him meant more to Neil than any physical pleasure Andrew could provide him with. 

Andrew’s hand reached further up Neil’s abdomen, seeking further confirmation in his body that Ichirou had not laid a hand on him. Andrew’s hand traced one of the long scars down Neil’s front roughly, steady fingers holding Neil up with a single touch. Neil pressed his face into the crook of Andrew’s neck, allowing his eyes to drift close, smiling softly as he took in Andrew’s scent, to take comfort in the fact that he was here–he was  _ home _ –he was with Andrew and everything was going to be alright.

Andrew’s hand stilled against him, his grip slackening on Neil’s shirt as if reading his thoughts. Rather than pull away as their breaths slowed, Andrew reached again for the back of Neil’s head, pulling it upward from its place on Andrew’s shoulder to tug Neil in for another bruising kiss. Neil kissed with a fervor that threatened to kill him, crushing his lips back against Andrew’s. Andrew grabbed Neil’s scarred cheeks, digging his thumbs into the skin, Neil’s mouth opening up instinctively. Andrew tasted like sweetness and cigarettes and Neil wanted to be able to taste it on his mouth for hours to come, to feel the distinct soreness of his lips in the morning when they woke.

Neil placed a hand on Andrew’s chest over his shirt, feeling the smooth, hard planes of the skin there. He knew that Andrew said that this was fine, that anything above the waist was fine, but he didn’t want to push it, not when Andrew’s body was still strung tense with ire, and Neil was content to touch Andrew, in whatever form it came. Andrew, sensing this, tugged his hand from Neil’s abdomen and took Neil’s, shoving it under the loose shirt he wore.

“I said yes, asshole.” Andrew murmured against his lips, trying his best to sound irritated despite the hands, the lips on him. “I meant it.”

“I know,” Neil said, breathless, “I’m stupid, remember?” The words sounded an intimate whisper as his nose brushed down the gentle curve of Andrew’s ear.

“Stupid–hopeless, it’s all the same for a junkie like you.” Andrew said as Neil broke from his lips, kissing down Andrew’s jaw with intent. 

Neil only hummed in response, focusing on the way Andrew’s skin felt under his hand, the soft, unmarred skin against the scars that covered Neil’s fingers. It was such a strange contrast, one he welcomed. He splayed his fingers over Andrew’s heart, feeling the steady thrum of it, as mesmerizing as the feeling of Andrew’s lips against him, his breath on his neck. His lips trailed a path down Andrew’s collarbone, to the neckband of his shirt, kissing the column of his throat. Andrew’s hand was back in his hair, yanking on it hard enough to force a stifled groan from Neil.

He wanted to feel every bit of Andrew, to make up for the time he’d been gone, for the grief Neil knew he’d given Andrew. Andrew might never admit to it, but, the last time Neil had gone missing he had choked out Kevin and ended up handcuffed to Wymack. He knew that Andrew likely hadn’t taken well to his disappearance and that he might never know the whole of what happened while he was gone, but he was satisfied to have whatever Andrew offered him and if this was what he wanted, what he needed right now, Neil was happy to provide. 

Neil pulled off Andrew, resting his forehead against the shorter man’s. He fought to catch his breath, to calm himself down. To his shock, Andrew didn’t make to move immediately. Neil’s skin was on fire as he stood, fingers against the equally-burning flesh of Andrew’s stomach, tracing the soft line of blond hair that trailed down from Andrew’s navel into the waistband of his sweatpants. Andrew was leaning slightly into Neil’s ministrations, a gentle weight against his fingers. He liked knowing that Andrew enjoyed this just as much as he did, that he could make Andrew as breathless as Andrew could make him. It brought him a strange sense of fulfillment and gratuity. After an age, Andrew’s hand finally dropped away from Neil, leaving only the one in his hair. 

“Satisfied?” Neil asked, making a half-hearted gesture Andrew couldn’t see to where the blond’s arm hung at his side.

“Interesting word choice,” was all Andrew said.

Neil snorted, lifting his head from Andrew’s once he managed to finally catch his breath. His eyes were hooded, but he watched Andrew through them. It was only now that he realized just how utterly exhausted he was, how little sleep he had gotten without the familiar weight and scent of Andrew next to him in the bed. Andrew grabbed his wrist, pulling it out from under his shirt, giving it a rough squeeze before letting Neil’s arm drop.

Andrew was gazing past Neil to where his hand was still in Neil’s hair, watching unblinkingly as he played with the strands. It had gotten a bit too long for his taste since he’d been gone and he knew that he’d need to get it cut before he played again tomorrow. He couldn’t stand it when his hair brushed the collar of his jersey, making him itch.

Neil didn’t dare move, or take his eyes off of Andrew, watching the way he stood there, a bored expression on his face. There was almost no sign in his demeanor, his mannerisms, to give a hint as to what they had just been doing, but despite it, Andrew maintained the appearance of a person thoroughly ravished. In the moonlight, his blond hair shone brighter, disheveled from Neil’s fingers, his lips shades darker than their usual dusty pink, swollen with kisses. The hazel of his eyes were hidden behind still-blown pupils, chasing away any doubt that Andrew hadn’t been enjoying himself. Andrew’s usually colorless cheeks were stained pink, the way they only ever were after moments like this, or after a game. Neil’s eyes danced along Andrew’s throat, to where red and purple bruises were blooming in the shape of Neil’s mouth and he had to fight off the smile that threatened to spread across his face. His clothes were rumpled too, the collar of his pajama shirt stretched enough that washing it might not restore it to its former state. Neil knew his shirt must be in a similar state, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Admiring your work, I suppose?” Andrew asked, not really a question, eyes swinging languidly to look into the icy blue of Neil’s. He dropped his hand from Neil’s hair.

Neil leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Andrew’s mouth one more time, retreating before it could escalate again. For emphasis, he nuzzled his nose against Andrew’s neck before pulling away completely. He thought, briefly, that he could fall asleep right here, safely hidden behind Andrew’s strength and heat, face pressed into the other man’s neck, his inebriating scent filling every pore in Neil’s body.

The exhaustion must have been written across his face because Andrew said absently, “The ice cream’s probably half-melted by now.” 

Neil shrugged, “Then I’ll get you more,” Andrew threw him a look that seemed to highlight his indifference on the subject, something Neil knew for a fact was false, since a few months prior, Andrew explained to Neil in a toneless voice that he was becoming more and more uninteresting by the day after he had told the smaller man that his favorite flavor was vanilla. He had told Neil that plain-flavored ice cream was a waste of time and calories, not that Andrew was particularly concerned about the latter. “You know I will.”

Andrew didn’t seem to give any hint that he’d even heard Neil, but he knew that Andrew was listening. Andrew’s attention was a tangible presence, like a third person in the room. It was as warmly familiar as it was completely disconcerting, that he had become so attuned to Andrew, more attuned than he had ever been to anyone, except maybe his own lies. What bothered him more was the way that it  _ didn’t _ bother him, that it felt more reassuring than anything else, easing something in his chest each time he looked at Andrew, felt him. 

Neil reached out and brushed away a stray lock of hair out of Andrew’s face. He dropped his hand, but refused to drag his gaze from Andrew, to be the one to retreat first, no matter how tired he was. He would stand there all night, so as he got to look at Andrew’s face. He traced a key into his palm, watching the way that Andrew watched him, expression aloof. It had been a long nine days and he was finally home–he was  _ okay _ , so long as he was here. 

Andrew shot him a glare in return, “Stop it.”

Neil raised his eyebrows, “What?” He asked, trying–and failing–to hide the exhaustion in his voice.

“Staring,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. The look Andrew gave him was pointed, but Neil didn’t break his stare, didn’t even blink before replying.

“I’m done running, Andrew,” Neil said, his voice low and tired. “This,” he gestured around, “is the only place I want to be. I’m here–I’m yours, for as long as you’ll have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Andrew had pressed a key into his palm, given him a home when he had never known the word, traded kisses and secrets alike. He had given so much of himself to Andrew over the years, leaned on him, and even if Neil hadn’t wanted to stay–he wasn’t sure if he could stand along anymore, if he could walk away. If Ichirou came calling again and was finally ready to rid himself of Neil, he was going to go out kicking and screaming, knives blazing. He had fought to stay here, to have what he never thought he could, and he wasn’t going to come quietly. He would hold tight to Andrew, to Exy, to his Foxes, and hope it would be enough. 

Andrew only stared blankly up at him, “Empty promises won’t get you anywhere, Josten.”

“Fuck you, Andrew,” he said, blue eyes flashing with ire. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Andrew said, sticking the tip of his finger in Neil’s ruined cheek. 

Neil moved a step closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of Andrew’s breath against his lips once again. “I’m not going anywhere, Andrew,” he said. “Believe me or don’t. I don’t really give a shit. “I’m yours. Always.”

“I don’t like that word,” Andrew said, eyes hooded as he looked on at Neil, their faces a hairsbreadth apart. 

“I don’t care,” Neil replied, knowing his voice didn’t sound nearly as snarky as he intended it to. He was too tired and Andrew was too stubborn, but he wasn’t going to let him win this.

“That mouth,” Andrew chided, his impassive eyes settling on Neil’s lips, as if to emphasize his point. His pupils were still wide, the hazel of his irises almost completely swallowed by black. 

“I mean it,” Neil said pointedly, his irritation breaking through the exhaustion clouding his mind.

“Shut up already,” Andrew said, closing the small space between them with a heated kiss.

This kiss was lazy compared to the one they had shared before, but the press of Andrew’s lips against his was just as bruising, as all-consuming. It seemed to be filled with unspoken words and promises, all of the things they did and didn’t say, wrapping around Neil with more heat than he ever thought possible. It was in kisses that they often revealed themselves either intentionally or otherwise, as words often seemed too futile for a pathological liar and a man who lived on absolutes and blunt truths. Neil melted into it, into the feeling of Andrew’s hand back in his hair, his other against Neil’s cheekbone still, rough against the smooth yet puckered scars, trying to absorb all he could before Andrew descented back into himself. But Andrew pulled away before Neil was ready, leaving Neil only with unbearable warmth, too-tight jeans, and the taste of Andrew on his tongue.

Andrew considered Neil for a moment with a half-interested eye, eyebrow raised slightly. “You’re a mess, Josten.”

“Yours,” A small smile was creeping its way onto his lips.

Andrew made a disgusted noise, rolling his eyes. He didn’t say a word, only brushed past Neil to grab the handle on the plastic shopping bag sitting on the small table. The ice cream was probably melted, but Neil knew that Andrew would eat it anyway. He didn’t look back as he headed through the door back into their apartment, where their two cats were watching them through the window with studious intent.

Andrew left the door open for Neil, but the latter man stood there for a moment, staring at Andrew’s retreating form, padding in towards the kitchen. Neil knew that his life was contingent on another man’s decisions, that he one day might not have a say in his fate, but for now, he was content in this life he had with Andrew, the one he had built without realizing it. It had happened before he knew what it was and he was in too deep now to run away has he always had. But Neil didn’t want to run anymore; he meant it when he’d said it to Andrew. He hadn’t wanted to run in years.

As Andrew disappeared into the hallway, Neil pulled out his phone, opened his texts, and typed a message out to the Foxes.

‘ _ I’m home, _ ' it said, ‘ _ I’m home.’ _

Putting his phone into his front pocket, Neil walked back into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, and set off in search of Andrew.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking I can write another one shot for next week but we'll see! But in the meantime I hope everyone is staying safe during this time!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story and please, please don't hesitate to leave comments or Kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr for writing updates, etc at dilemma-ed and check out my other works For Everything and Falling (Andreil) and To The Fallen (a Dramione war fic)
> 
> I'm still really new to writing aftg, so please lmk in the comments what you'd like to see me write prompt wise, etc !
> 
> Until next time,  
> Em :)


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